The Church.

Still, still thy garden hath its fruits and spices,
        My Lord, my Lord!
Still hath its wells and pools of thy devices,
        My Lord!
White, in a stranger soil, thy lily stands, the close
        Breathes with thy rose!

Wild feet, mad feet, thy lovely paths have beaten,
        My Lord, my Lord!
And sinful lips thy holy fruits have eaten,
        My Lord!
Strange hands have tended me and tended ill, yet thou
        Lovest me, now!

So to thy feet I offer my waste places.
        My Lord, my Lord!
walk them till they spring in verdant graces,
        My Lord!
With new trees plant, and from the fruits divine
        Tread out thy wine!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Margaret Steele Anderson was an American poet and author, born on October 8, 1867. She is known for her lyrical and expressive poetry, which often explores themes of nature, emotion, and personal reflection. Anderson's works include several published collections of poetry and prose that garnered critical acclaim during her lifetime. Though not as widely recognized today, her contributions to American literature remain significant. She passed away on October 7, 1921.

Margaret Steele Anderson

From Sudden Death. . . .

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

The Violinist.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

Conscience.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

The Dead Child.

Margaret Steele Anderson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Courage.

I thank thee, Life, that though I be
This poor and broken thing to see,
I still can look with pure delight
Upon thy rose, the red, the white.

And though so dark my own demesne,
My neighbor's fields so fair and green,
I thank thee that my soul and I
Can fare along that grass and sky.

Yet am I weak! Ere I be done.
Give me one spot that takes the sun!
Give me, ere I uncaring rest.
One rose, to wear it on my breast!

Margaret Steele Anderson

Not This World.

Shall I not give this world my heart, and well?
If for naught else, for many a miracle
Of the impassioned spring, the rose, the snow?
Nay, by the spring that still must come and go
When thou art dust, by roses that shall blow
Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss.
Not this world, oh, not this!

Shall I not give this world my heart, who find
Within this world the glories of the mind
That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God?
Nay, hy the little footways it hath trod,
And smiUs to see, when thou art under sod.
And by its very gaze across the ahyss.
Not this world, oh, not this!

Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold
One figure here above myself, my gold.
My life and hope, my joy and my intent?
Nay, by that form whose strengt...

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Trees.

When on the spring's enchanting blue
You trace your slender leaves and few,
Then do I wish myself re-born
To lands of hope, to lands of morn.

And when you wear your rich attire,
Your autumn garments, touched with fire,
I want again that ardent soul
That dared the race and dreamed the goal.

But, oh, when leafless, dark and high,
You rise against this winter sky,
I hear God's word: "Stand still and see
How fair is mine austerity!"

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Prayer Of The Weak.

Lord of all strength, behold, I am but frail!
Lord of all harvest, few the grapes and pale
Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, Lord,
Who boldest in thy gift the tempered sword.
Hast armed me with a sapling! Lest I die,
Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry:

Grant me, I pray, to tread my grapes as one
Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun;
Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed
Let me lift up my sapling like a blade;
Then, Lord, thy cup for mine abundant wine,
Thy foeman. Lord, for that white steel of mine!

Margaret Steele Anderson

The Night-Watches.

The laurel withers on your brow,
victor, weary of the race!
And you, who sit in mighty place,
How heavy is your scepter now!

Flushed with the kiss your lips have known,
"Woman, this is your hour to wake.
And know that flesh and heart may break
When love hath entered on its own.

And you, who knew where angels trod.
And marked the path for duller eyes.
In this lone hour are you still wise?
Do you not quail before your God?

God, to whom the dark is day.
Forget not these, the strong, the right.
The happy souls, for. Lord, at night
They tremble in their tents of clay!

Margaret Steele Anderson

To A Lady.

Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church.

At night, in visions, when my soul drew near
    The shadowy confines of the spirit land,
Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear,
    Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand;
And forms of light, too, more divinely fair
    Than Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn,
On wings that made sweet music in the air,
    Have round me, in those hours of bliss, been borne,
And, filled with joy unutterable, I
Have deemed myself a born child of the sky.

And often, too, at sunset's magic hour,
    When musing by some solitary stream,
While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r,
    And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream:
Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth,
    Have whispere...

George W. Sands